He envied her a little. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. “Martin, I don’t know what to say. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. —'They have,' says he. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof.
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